by Greg Dragon
“Well, I agree with you that imagining life here is hell.” Raileo shrugged. “I’m not going to act like it’s a badge of honor coming from schtill. I think the thing we all agree on is that we made it out of it. That could include Fio if it all works out. So don’t feel bad, we’re just giving you a hard time. It’s funny when it gets all awkward like that.”
“This whole thing is a disgrace, let’s be honest,” Quentin added. “This city is known for its exports, but the people here are living worse than any hub. That’s insane.”
“No argument here, brother, but it isn’t our concern.” Cilas waved an authoritative ration bar at them. “Let’s keep our heads in the game. You make this personal and you’re going to leave yourself open. I want us to go in, unseen, and get the hell out with the two thypes responsible for selling out the Alliance. If we can ground those Marines, that’s the cherry on top, but we’re not here to overthrow their government.”
“Do you know what I hate?” Raileo blurted as if he hadn’t heard a word that anyone said. “I hate being a Boomer.”
Helga was sure this was the beginning of a joke. “What’s wrong with being a Boomer?”
“People think you’re limited, and they’re not entirely off-base. We’re not ignorant, but the look they give you when you admit to it, as if they pity the poor little star child, it’s so condescending."
“Hmph,” Helga said. “Never looked at it like that. Now I feel bad.”
“Why? Aren’t we all Boomers here?”
“Nope. Some of us were born on a planet but were taken too early to remember it,” she said, reaching for her pack to look inside it for another ration bar.
“That label has more to do with who you know than where you were born, Ray,” Quentin advised him. “We all are boomers. Everyone here grew up on a starship, learning how to aim straight. You shouldn’t feel bad about them giving you looks. It’s not like the Alliance cares where you were born, and even if they did, wouldn’t they favor their spacers?”
“The lizards don’t care,” Anders drawled.
“I like him.” Quentin pointed at Anders. “You hear that, Cilas? The lizards don’t care. See, that is what I’m talking about. Here we have a Nighthawk with his head in the game.”
“Hey, before we relax, I have to do this,” Cilas said, prompting the other four Nighthawks to look at him, confusion reflected across their tired faces. “I need to give you the identification of our target. You should see him appear within your view if you’re still wearing your lenses, which you really should not be removing when we’re deployed. Do you understand?”
They all agreed in a garbled blend of, “Yes Cilas,” “Got it, Rend,” “Oh, it’s right there,” and, “I see it,” not realizing how silly they appeared, moving their hands around in front of their faces, playing with the interface. Before them was a holographic information card displaying the resume and computer-generated likeness of Garson Sunveil.
His information was sparse, but his occupation, Alliance recruiter, made Helga want to laugh out loud.
“Think this ‘recruiter’ ever served on the deck of even one of our lite cruisers?” Helga asked.
“This old man has only ever ridden shuttles up to Neroka and the other stations, and not as a recruiter,” Raileo offered.
“Ray’s right, Helga. When I asked Colonel Fumo about him, he said that there were absolutely no recruiters on record in Basce City,” Cilas added.
“I remember,” Helga said, wondering if he had forgotten that both she and Fio were there. “Why impersonate a recruiter? It isn’t like a luxurious position, or one with any power. What is the benefit?”
“Do you really want to find out?” Anders gloomily asked her. “It won’t be anything good. This cruta is the same one sending bounty hunters for Fio, isn’t he? He’s not a good person, and he’s using our name. That to me is enough to warrant trial then execution. All these poor souls in places like this all over the galaxy look to the Alliance for hope. Men like Sunveil erode that, and without the Alliance, why would humanity have any hope?”
“That was almost poetic.” Raileo tilted his cup towards him, with a straight face to show that he actually meant it.
They talked for hours switching between subjects, from where they were born to their thoughts on the mission, never staying on a single topic too long. Helga participated but it all felt forlorn, like this could be their last night together. She exchanged glances with Cilas, who looked to be thinking the same thing. It was getting late, so he suggested they all get some sleep.
Helga being both the smallest and the highest rank after Cilas, was given Fio’s bedroom to sleep where she could have some privacy. The other Nighthawks slept in the living area, Cilas taking first watch to secure the door until the start of what would be the equivalent of the Navy’s third shift.
Inside Fio’s chest of drawers Helga found a treasure trove of contraband. All manner of weapons, stimulants, spices, and bejeweled clothes unlike anything she’d seen before. The bed was small but still managed to occupy two-thirds of the space, and on the ceiling spun an orb projecting images onto the walls. They were of people, photographs from Fio Doro’s past, giving Helga an idea of the woman’s journey through the years.
There was a young, innocent Fio, standing between a man and woman who she resembled. She was no older than eight and looked to be happy. Another showed her seated on a hover bike with a girl behind her armed with a rifle. The Fio in this photograph looked to be thirteen but the innocence was gone, replaced by a hardness to her eyes.
The last photo was her with a much older man. She was standing in front of him brandishing pistols pointed at the viewer. Helga put her at about sixteen years old. She wore a scowl and her eyes had gone from hard to happy again, and there was a caption. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will always have your back. Love Pops.” Helga’s hand came up to her mouth when she recalled Fio mentioning her father being killed.
The remainder of the images were posters of fashion models, each in a different style and variety of dress. The bed was comfortable despite its looks and Helga passed out as soon as her head touched the pillow. She woke up to shouting, and thinking it was coming from the front of the apartment, she quickly pulled on her gear to rush out and join them.
All four Nighthawks were at a window, each in a different state of undress. She crossed to see what had them so curious and heard more shouting coming from the street below them. “What is going on out there?” she asked.
“Good you’re awake,” Cilas said. “Aquilo came earlier, warning us that BasPol, which is the local security force, is kicking in people’s doors searching for Fio.”
“Change of plans then?” Helga pressed rhetorically, letting her eyes roam over the rooftops of the stair-stacked buildings in the distance. It was dawn and dry, the sky awash with all manner of colors, and the sun was on the rise, revealing the filth along the sides of the streets and in the alleyways. People were up and starting their day, but some were being questioned by what appeared to be an armored militia. “They look pretty damned geared and loaded to be police.”
“They’re thugs, and like I told young Aquilo, he and his people need to hunker down, and when they finally come to this apartment, we’ll give them hell,” Cilas said. “One is bound to know where our target is located, so they’re doing us a favor by coming here. You see how splintered they operate? One or two per building as they canvas the area. We wait them out, take them down, and get one talking to get a name or some form of location.”
Somewhere in the distance, Helga heard the chattering feedback of an auto-rifle, and that was when she saw the source of the chaos. On one of the tiers directly across from them, a BasPol officer was having a shouting match with a woman. He wore black padded armor, thin enough to be form-fitting with red stripes down the sides of his arms and legs. The woman turned to leave, and he reached to pull her back, but his partner walked up and stopped him, waving
her away.
Cilas stood up and walked over to the side of the door where he waited expectantly as they all turned to eye him curiously. “I am going to guess that they were the same men who were tearing up half the city searching for Fio last night,” he suggested. “We were warned about them working for the enemy, remember? They likely left before we arrived, and came back this morning with numbers to cover more area. Which means that they’ll probably be coming—”
The door flew open and Cilas stepped out from the side, grabbed an intruder by his chest plate, rolled backwards, and threw him over his head and into the table, shattering it on impact. Quentin sprang forward to take the second man, grabbing his arm to send him crashing into his partner and then the wall behind him. He checked outside for more but found none so he barred the door.
Helga went inside Cilas’s pack, took out some cuffs and bound their prisoners, securing both their ankles and wrists.
“Way to respond the hard way, Rend,” Raileo said, “But what are we to do with them?”
“I don’t know, Ray,” Helga responded before the commander, placing her boot on one of the men’s chest. “The way they roughed up all those women, we can start by cutting out their tongues.”
“Easy, butcher,” Cilas said softly, touching his temple to remind her that an officer should remain calm even in this instance. He then crouched over the other man, the one he originally threw and who was now up in a seated position. “Whoever you are, you’re going to answer all of my questions. Are we clear? First question. Are you two really BasPol officers?”
“No,” the man answered, too quick for any of them to believe it. Cilas put a hand over the liar’s mouth then slammed his knife into his shoulder between the armor plates. Even with his mouth covered, the man’s scream of pain could be heard just as clear as day.
“I’m going to ask you again. Are you BasPol?”
“Yes,” he shouted, staring at the entrance as if hoping help was on the way.
“Good,” Cilas responded. “You see now I don’t have to hurt you. Keep telling me the truth, and you may actually get out of this alive. My brother Quentin there will take your friend to the other room, and he will be asking the same questions. I don’t have to tell you what happens if the answers don’t match in the end, right?”
The two men were surprisingly forthcoming when they realized that they were dealing with professionals and not gangsters from the neighborhood. The Nighthawks learned about Garson Veil, and how he had told them that a traitor from the stocks was looking to smuggle intelligence out to the Geralos. BasPol wasn’t being paid for their involvement; these had been orders passed down to their chief by an official, William Vray.
This information corroborated most of what they knew, and helped to clarify why the city’s police force was working against them. Cilas got the information on Garson Veil’s estate, and was pleased to hear it could be accessed from the stocks. The men knew nothing about Vray, other than he was a councilman who was over the district, and known to have some dealings with a few smugglers.
“The Marines,” Quentin said to his man, when Cilas was finished with his own interrogation and crossed over to check on him. “The Alliance Marines that are in this city. Why are they here?”
“I don’t know,” screamed the man, who was cuffed and hunched over on the carpet. “Wait, did you say Alliance? Oh, I remember now,” he quickly added, after Quentin pulled a knife from his boot and threw it into the air, catching it skillfully in a reverse grip. “They are investigating something, and we were told to either stay out of their way or help them. They don’t want our help, though. A few of them went up to Sunveil’s compound. Since he’s Alliance, we figured he’s hosting them.”
“And who do you think we are?” Helga asked from behind Cilas where she had been studying the man’s face to see if she could tell if he was bluffing.
“You’re obviously mercs, but for who? The cruta that owns this place?” The BasPol officer laughed. Cilas and Helga exchanged looks. Despite the questions they were asking, he hadn’t picked up on the fact that they were the same Alliance their captive claimed that Garson Sunveil was a part of.
“We ask the questions, not you,” Quentin reminded him, driving a big boot into his chest. “Keep this up and you’ll make this next part easy. What do you say, Rend? Does his story match up?”
“It does,” Cilas admitted, though he stood frozen, looking down at the man, one hand rubbing at his chin while the other gripped his unmarked sidearm. “What do you think, Hel?” He turned to regard her, and Helga felt her jaw tighten and her patience run out. Something told her that this man was simply delaying them by being difficult rather than giving it all up like his partner.
“I think he’s stalling, and won’t give us anything useful,” Helga injected, her voice gone level and cold to reflect her patience having run its course for these men. “He doesn’t know who we are. If he did, he would know that these games are useless. We didn’t come here to play. How about we hand them over to Thrall as a gesture of appreciation?”
19
With two officers missing, BasPol quickly exited the tenements, a move which meant they were likely to return with the Marines in tow. For several long hours inside Fio’s apartment, the Nighthawks busied themselves with preparation for an evening raid on Garson Sunveil’s compound. From the location given by the BasPol men earlier, the compound was located north of the tenements, close enough for them to walk.
They each took turns watching the door, weapons live and at the ready. The others passed the time training or staring out the window at the crowds surrounding the market. With BasPol gone, it was all back to normal, the only shouts coming from the vendors hocking their supplies. Cilas called Ursula, updated Fio, and spoke at length with Ina Reysor about the status of the crew.
When the sun went down, its light replaced by streetlamps, they were all geared up in their composite armor, concealed by their wet, hooded cloaks. The loadout was auto-rifles and sidearms, but Raileo Lei brought his OKAGI “Widow Maker” Sniper.
On the streets, the rain picked up once again, and brought with it a wind that chilled them to the bone. Cilas took them off the main road into a tight alleyway and onto another that was identical to the first, though with much less people and lights. Hunched close together, they stuck to the sidewalks, every head on a swivel, with hands tucked below the flaps of their cloaks, gripping their weapons.
Many of the people they passed were curious, but not enough to impede them. Helga expected to see Thrall’s runners shadowing them to keep them safe so their boss could make good on his word. She realized they hadn’t been there earlier, and wondered if they had been the ones shooting it out with the officers. Cilas moved like a man possessed, and her short legs were struggling to keep up with him and Quentin Tutt.
“Some sort of party going on up ahead,” Quentin reported, his tall frame giving him a vantage above the crowd. There was the sound of broken glass, shouts rising above the music and rain, an explosion followed by gunfire, and the familiar uniforms of BasPol flanked by soldiers dressed in Alliance Marine armor. Cilas grabbed Quentin before Helga could reach him, the two of them knowing he’d fly into a rage at the treachery of those men.
“Take this alley,” Cilas instructed, shoving him to the side of a once-busy bar, whose blue sign illuminated the surprisingly empty alleyway. Looking up, Helga had a moment of reflection, seeing the exterior walls of the buildings that sandwiched them, stretched up and up, seeming to go on forever. Twelve stories of cracked, concrete plaster with bridges, wires and pipelines crisscrossed above them, obstructing the rain.
Raileo ran forward to work at opening the lock, and the other four Nighthawks hugged the building’s sides, watching the entrance. The Marines were still shooting. It sounded ominous, and not three times did Helga look to see if Cilas noticed it. He was in a mood, driven, which had been amplified earlier when BasPol kicked in the door.
“We’re in,” Raileo whispered, pulling open the gate and waving a hand for them to run on ahead.
Helga made to move but Cilas stretched out his arm to stop her, then signaled for the others to do the same. Before them stood a concrete courtyard with a fountain at the center filled with wet refuse. Enclosing it was a tall wall, brown from a combination of wetness and the low light. During the day Helga imagined it would have been more ocher, with its surface covered with graffiti, names, and territorial gang signs.
“What in the worlds is this?” Helga groaned.
“Our northern wall,” Cilas replied, walking around the wall, slowly examining the surface. “When BasPol isn’t here terrorizing, I imagine that children of the tenements come to this circle to play. I’d even go so far as to say it’s a special place, considering the treatment. Maybe for worship, study, who knows? For us, it’s the barrier that separates us from Sunveil’s compound. I assumed there’d be an entrance over here.”
Helga looked for Raileo to chime in with his off-color humor, but the Nighthawk was already pulling himself up onto the barrier. Reaching down, he held out his hand, but she had to run and place a foot against the wall to gain enough height for him to pull her up beside him. Cilas helped Anders in the same way, but Quentin slapped away his hand. With little effort, he leaped up and grabbed the edge, pulling his large frame up to theirs without missing a breath.
“Oh, to be tall,” Helga quipped. “A man your size shouldn’t move like that. How is it even fair?” Quentin slapped her backpack playfully before walking around to where Cilas perched looking out at what lay ahead. “Sunveil sics his dogs on the tenements all while he sits comfortably in this compound living off them,” the big Nighthawk commented.
“Alliance, my rear. This crook has it coming. He deserves everything we’re about to give to him,” Cilas added.
“Just look at this place,” Anders remarked. “One man owns all this?”